Breathe
by dusTSkies
Summary: It's been one of those nights where he lays atop the messed blankets of his bed, numb hands beneath his head, and stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn. Alex/Hank, Post XM:FC.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first Halex story! But it's a little sad. It takes place sometime after XM:FC. It's a short story, only a few chapters.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men or Marvel.**

* * *

><p>On a rainy Sunday afternoon Alex is concealed within his bedroom, the lights off.<p>

He wears the same clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, from the night before.

It's been one of those nights where he lays atop the messed blankets of his bed,

his hands beneath his head,

and stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn.

Until they snap shut.

It's been one of those nights where he just lays there,

thinking, thinking, thinking...

But worse.

No one bothers helping him resurface.

He knocks on Charles's door mid-afternoon having come straight from his bedroom

with bags under his deep blue eyes.

His usually combed blond hair is ruffled from hours of his head being seemingly glued to a pillow.

His scleras are almost red.

Before the events of the Cuban Missle Crisis, Charles revived a majority of the young Summers's memory.

Day by day.

**_This is not the appropriate time, Alex. I'm sorry._**

Xavier's hoarse voice replies in his head.

Alex thinks it is, in fact, the appropriate time.

He opens the door and steps inside, immediately engulfed in darkness.

Just like his own bedroom.

He can't see Charles, but he knows he's laying in bed glaring at him.

He can feel it.

"I've sent Sean to the grocery store. If you wouldn't mind assisting him when he returns-" the telepath states, focused on Alex's rushing resolute thoughts.

There aren't any words.

Just brief images.

Alex can feel him faintly in his head.

"Fine. Whatever." The young Summers knows Charles is stalling what's to come.

He just stares into the black for a moment, looking for crystal blue irises he will never find.

"I'm truly sorry-" Charles begins, and Alex cuts him off in an instant,

"Sorry doesn't bring them back. They're gone. At least...my parents are."

He doesn't breathe.

Today is the anniversary of the plane crash.

"Really, Alex, I truly wish I could help you..."

Alex inhales,

exhales.

"My brother is still out there, man."

The brunet telepath sighs,

"Cerebro is gone. There's no need for me to continue reviving your memories. The rest will eventually surface. I've told you this."

Alex is angry.

"Yeah, cerebro's gone. _I know. _We should just...build another one, you know?"

Another sigh.

"It's not as easy as it sounds, Alex. Building machines requires patience. Hank has already proposed the idea to me."

Inhale.

Hank.

"Is he...He's working on it, right?"

Charles shifts beneath his blankets.

"Imagine how long it took to create the last machine."

Exhale.

_Damn._

He can not wait that long.

"Yes, you can," the telepath replies to his thoughts. "I'm afraid you'll have to."

Scott is out there.

Somewhere.

Finding his older brother is at the hands of a boy who most likely enjoys the distance between them.

And Alex can not bare to stand there staring into the dark.

"He doesn't enjoy it to some degree."

Alex agitatedly pulls up a mental barrier between him and Charles.

Charles isn't surprised how weak it sustains.

"Perhaps you should try mending the broken bond between you two."

Bond...?

"Whatever. He won't listen."

Charles doesn't bother exemplifying their similarities, besides their differing qualities.

It's too easy.

And the brunet telepath has grown easily irritated.

"How do you know Hank won't-"

This time Alex listens.

He leaves,

shutting the door unneccesarily hard behind him.

Hank won't listen to him because

he's never listened to Hank.

This, he knows.

Two weeks ago,

Alex rounded the corner of a hall headed to Sean Cassidy's room and silently passed a sullen McCoy

leaning against the door frame of Raven's formerly occupied room, his arms folded.

The young Summers ignored the twinge in his chest at the way Hank's deep amber eyes,

behind glasses that slid down his wrinkled nose as he turned away,

hardened.

Yes.

It hurt.

The disheartened blue mutant downstairs remained hidden in his repaired laboratory, just a shadow on the wall slipping in and out for food and assistance to a devastated Charles.

Sean eventually stopped trying to "help out" around the house and found it extremely annoying and quite useless to play housewife to three men who could care less if a dish of cornbeef and hash sat steaming on the dining room table (an old childhood favorite of his).

Sometimes Sean Cassidy substituted for his punching bag

since Hank stayed away...

and besides,

Hank wasn't Hank sometimes.

He could be Beast any moment.

The Irish boy was his buddy and all, but frankly, as individuals they each had their own battles to fight and Alex believed Sean had the least of it, the lightest weight on his shoulders. Perhaps that's why he tended to hang around the redhead because,

for a moment,

he could just feel normal...

if that were even possible.

He could pretend,

in the back of his head,

Darwin was going to challenge him to pinball later.

He could pretend Raven was jogging on the treadmill in the weight room.

He could pretend Hank had his nose in a science magazine in the library.

He could pretend Erik was whispering something into Charles's ear amid a game of Chess that made the telepathic's cheeks rosy.

He could pretend he knew where his brother was.

He could pretend,

now,

the Harvard graduate in the lab was going to help him find him.

He didn't have to pretend he was moments later at the opened door of the lab fidgetting impatiently,

shielding his desperation behind a steel gaze,

frankly surprised the metallic door was even open,

leaning his weight against the door frame.

Babbling about the past.

Because he was.

It sounded somewhat like an apology.

But

the furry blue mutant opposite of him hears,

peering at him with a deadpan expression,

absolutely

nothing.

And Alex Summers refuses to leave until he does.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Next chapter. I know it's sort of short. Please excuse the swearing (on Alex's part of course). Thank you guys for reading this, I appreciate it. Thank you, roxashasboxers, for your feedback, I appreciate it. And I really appreciate the favs and alerts-thanks! Two more chapters.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men: First Class or Marvel.**

* * *

><p>The rain lets up eventually, just a short little shower soaking the concrete steps and the gradually growing lawn of Xavier's mansion.<p>

Alex pushes past Hank's resistant form holding the dented metallic door of the lab open,

his impatience colliding with

desperation

as he stumbles inside without words

under Hank's studiously baffled gaze,

whose cheeks heat when the hazy-eyed blond brushes past him,

skin against fur.

He plants himself right in front of a metallic work table cluttered with

metallic junk.

and notebooks.

Science textbooks and journals,

a few broken beakers

at his feet.

The lighting above his head captures Alex in a ghostly form,

his ruffled bed head seeming a dull gold

while the paleness of his skin

darkens the bags under his eyes.

He stands there staring down at the cluttered table

searching for something

that's not even there.

The lab wasn't particularly a place of comfort to Alex.

Similar to an old depressing study

(at least more or less now as a result of the young occupants frequent destructive fits of rage and distress),

piles and heaps

of books on subjects the blond mutant had absolutely zero interest in

despite the fact

he couldn't tell you what exactly it _was_ he had

absolutely zero interest in,

microscopes and syringes

sitting atop the counters farthest along the windowless back walls-

and it's the same for every damn wall.

Every windowless wall.

Gray.

Gray.

Gray.

He hated it,

could never conceal himself completely inside like Hank,

hours

and

days

huddled in a little corner of the lab wondering what the hell went wrong.

_What the_

_hell_

_went wrong!_

And Alex has done the same thing-

the same damn thing that rainy Sunday afternoon-has concealed himself within,

but is struggling to surface

the same way

Hank struggles to submerge himself

d

e

e

p

e

r

than he's ever gone,

he's struggling to surface from the

pull of his past while

Hank yearns to fade into the black.

The broken bond of their struggles.

Alex and Hank stare at eachother for a

long

long

moment of devastating silence.

Hank's mind rushes madly as his large amber eyes drift over the boy standing opposite of him,

and it's true,

he hasn't listened to a majority of Alex's rambling,

but he's picked up on a few key words

(_brother_

_Scott_

_airplane_

_crash_

_gone_

_Cerebro)_

and he can't help but to peer at him in wonder.

Curiosity.

Concern.

The young Summers shifts uncomfortably under his gaze,

distant blue eyes flitting across the table again.

"Man," he grumbles, leaning against the edge and pressing a palm to one of his throbbing temples, "This is fucked up. This whole thing..."

Hank nods slowly. "It is." He attempts to fasten a button on his lab coat,

avoiding any further eye contact with Alex.

He's realized this isn't about them.

He tells himself this now as he steps forward to the pale mutant

whose began to sway as he loses his balance,

"Alex-"

The blond waves him off,

his face heating at the thought of McCoy touching him,

what it would do to him,

"Back off. I'm fine, alright? Relax. I just gotta find Scott. You gotta help me."

Hank, again, nods slowly,

watching him carefully.

But before he can grab him,

before he can steady him on his feet

and check his fever-

_THUMP._

Alex has collasped.


End file.
